Larose stood at the edge of water. In one hand a half empty bottle of sour wine and in the other a letter from his father. Which felt other worldly, considering the last time Larose could remember
receiving a letter was never. Dizzy and losing balance on the edge, Larose gazed up at the night sky uninhibited by the city street lights or skyscrapers. Here in exile, there was nothing but hills
covered in vineyard grapes and midnight shadows. It was just him for miles and miles. All alone and drunk. The thought had Larose lift the bottle up quenching his thirst for self-destruction, all
the while feeling the strange parchment in between his soft manicured fingers. It burned. It burned so much.

“No longer in exile. You can leave the family vineyard. Come back home son.” He gurgled out his father’s sleek handwriting mockingly, spilling spit and wine all over his nice white shirt and into
the pool. As drunk and alone as he was, his father made him feel all the more alone.

“I can’t imagen you’re still a drunk.” Larose spoke to no one. “I forbid the workers from lending you any of our wine and this being your rehab, I’m certain you’ve also learned your lesson.”
Lesson? What lesson? You can’t unteach a man to fish, and Larose grew up with wino’s who worked with his father. Suffice to say, the upstairs bathtub was pretty much fucked. After that didn’t work
out so well, however, Larose took to bribing the ‘work’ hands around him which was quite easier and faster than any of the other methods he had used.

“Come home?” the sincerity in his question was audible and even surprised himself. The thought of home, the Miami Manson or Hollywood ‘household’ which festered itself on piety and rich fat men
stuffing food down their gizzard’s, matched in the level of comfort he got from wine induced acid reflex. In fact, Larose’s last memory of home was when his father demanded him to get in an
unmarked car with his mother standing quietly besides herself, so that he could be banished secretly from their estate. His embarrassment was too much apparently and his drunkenness was a blemish
that needed to be wiped clean from the family name. So, they sent him here, to the family vineyard to fester, but this time alone and sober with his thoughts.

“I can’t imagen that your drunk.” Larose repeated the letters line in a slobbering, pitiful giggling fit which made him loose whatever balance he had, plunging head first down into the pool.

Gatsby. That was his first thought when he realized he couldn’t breathe six feet under. He was just like Gatsby if Gatsby had inherited all his money, was a lousy drunk son and instead of lavish
parties in seek of his ‘true love’ he spent his six months of his life a hostage to his snob nosed father. All the same though, Larose was a faking wealth just like the book character and if not
mistaken, he was having a rather difficult time in the pool.

When he did manage to reach the surface, and latch his hands onto the white tiled edge clumsily, Larose couldn’t help but fiercely laugh at himself and everything around. The pool was turning
a purple and red blotched canvas as the wine bottle he had bribed a worker to buy him, was sinking to the bottom, spilling its essence all along the way. He had spent six months, day in and day
out, and this was the first time he had ever actually ‘swam’ in it. Sure he had lounged by it getting some sun ray’s and sure he had used the grill a lot, mostly so he could gaze out at all the
poor fuckers checking on his grapes, but he had never actually swam in it. The pithiness of it was all just to fucking funny.

Six months in a kidnapped rehab lead him to be; consistently smashed, utterly alone and yet, dreading to ever go home.

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Comments

The idea is interesting. I like the take of the father and son relations being 'off scene' yet, in the short prose, very visible. The sentence about the bathroom being fucked, not sure I understood that part.
The comparison with Gatsby was great. It was fun to read, flowed very well, and created a very nice picture. I could see it. Near the end, on latching hands onto the tiled edge clumsily, perhaps instead "latch his hands clumsily (describing the hands/latching) onto-" etc.
I think the last sentence sums it all up, and conveys a sense of starkness while being full of emotional content -sharp, vivid strokes. A complete picture of this familial dysfunction in a very brief, interesting delivery. Very nice!